In 1920s Hamburg, a dancer couple created wild, Expressionist costumes that looked like retro robots and Bauhaus knights.
The Rare Book Room of the New York Academy of Medicine Library in East Harlem has a trove of printed materials connected to camping and outdoor recreation in the early 1900s.
The 17th-century Manual of Calligraphy and Painting (Shi zhu zhai shu hua pu) is so fragile that until digitization no one was allowed to open it.
Soon over 200 exhibition websites for the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), going back to its first web experiments in 1995, will be totally archived, from their images to their code.
Old NYC, a project by software engineer Dan Vanderkam, launched last month with thousands of images from the New York Public Library mapped across the five boroughs.
Considered the “people’s literature” in the 17th century, broadside ballads were sold for a penny or halfpenny, their pairing of a comic or satiric song alongside a woodblock illustration making them popular bawdy amusement across classes.
The day after I went to go see the Martha Wilson: Downtown and Performing Franklin Furnace exhibitions in New York City, a friend brought me to a lecture-performance by Carolee Schneemann at a raw gallery space in Tribeca run by Hunter College.
Now more than ever archives are in a transition, one that offers an opportunity for new potential at a time when there’s nostalgia for old, dusty cardboard boxes.
Despite their important role in strengthening cultures and communities, languages are fragile things.
Despite the vast and growing resources available online, much of the world’s knowledge and history remains ephemeral and under threat of disappearance.
The 34-year-old Emma Goldman Papers Project is in limbo after losing its affiliation with UC Berkeley and running through its funding.
Last week, the British Library launched a £40m ($60m) crowdfunding initiative to preserve its archive of over six million sound recordings.